


Going Up

by SevereStorms, wreckingthefinite



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: And SO much Weight Gain, Belly Kink, Consensual Kink, Fat!Bucky, Feeding Kink, Food Kink, Hand Feeding, Like So Much Teasing, M/M, Modern AU, Possible triggers: fat shaming, Teasing, Very Big Bucky, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, chubby!bucky, possible triggers: teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 08:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9482570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/pseuds/SevereStorms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingthefinite/pseuds/wreckingthefinite
Summary: Someone recently requested a truly fat Bucky, like over 300 pounds, and to our absolute astonishment, we realized we had somehow not managed to do very much of that? So here's the most shamelessly kinky piece of garbage the two of us could muster, with a VERY big Bucky indeed. There is also quite a lot of teasing, which skims up against the line of fat-shaming, but is NOT intended as actual fat-shaming, because that is simply not a very Steve Rogers thing to do. (And is not a thing we would ever do, either).Still, if teasing/shaming is not your thing, please proceed with extreme care!





	

Bucky doesn’t even notice that he has a new neighbor until the day the elevator breaks.

“Seriously?” he asks the doorman, who’s taping the _OUT OF ORDER_ sign to the elevator doors. “How’m I supposed to get to my apartment?”  He shifts the bags he’s carrying irritably, as if to illustrate that he’s overburdened enough as it is, but the effect is ruined by the fact that it’s just takeout. 

  The doorman shrugs. “Take the stairs.”

  “The stairs? I live on the tenth floor.” 

  “I don’t know what to tell you, buddy,” the doorman says. “It’s not like we got an emergency backup elevator. It’s the stairs until the repairman can get here, which isn’t until this weekend.” 

  _Jesus._ Bucky doesn’t even know where the stairs are; he’s never used them. He wanders around the lobby, looking down never-before-explored corridors, until he finally finds the heavy steel door that opens onto the stairwell. 

By the time he hits the landing at the sixth floor, he’s out of breath and has to pause for a break. That’s when he hears the footsteps behind him, and turns to see who could possibly be _running_ up the stairs. 

  An improbably handsome, blond, blue-eyed, superhero-looking specimen of a man is bounding up the stairs three at a time, taking huge, sweeping strides on lean, strong legs. He’s tall – almost as tall as Bucky – and built like a gymnast, all upper body, with a broad chest and wide, strong shoulders tapering down to a waist that would do a ballet dancer proud. He’s wearing a skin-tight t-shirt in some stretchy material that shows off the well-honed edges of every muscle in his torso. 

  He bounds up the last few stairs and stops next to Bucky, not even breathing hard. Bucky feels mildly offended, in fact, by how chipper he looks about the whole no-elevator situation. 

  “Hi,” the guy says. “How’s it going?” 

 “Great,” Bucky says. He’s taking deep breaths, trying to pull himself together, and he can’t help but notice that the guy even _smells_ good, like dryer sheets and Speed Stick. He’s not even sweating. “Just wish they’d fix the damn elevator.” 

“Really? Is it broken?” 

  Bucky gestures vaguely at the steps. “Yeah.” 

  “Never take it, myself,” the guy says. “I’m just on the tenth floor, so I make it into a little bit of an extra workout. Back home in New York, I was on twenty. Good opportunity for some extra steps.” 

“Sounds like fun,” Bucky lies. It does not sound like fun, it sounds like hell, and he isn’t sure why the guy doesn’t just hurry up and get on with his stair-based torture regime and leave him alone to die in peace. He gestures at his chest. “I take the elevator, like a civilized human being.” 

“You should try taking the stairs instead, it’s great as an intensity interval. As long as you’re going up.” He sounds so _cheerful_ about it, like this is somehow useful information that Bucky had asked for, but _intensity interval?_ Really? 

“Thanks for the tip. I’ll keep that in mind.” It's dismissive, pointedly so, but Steve still doesn't leave, and Bucky catches him in the middle of a covert up-and-down look. He catches it because the look lingers, and their eyes meet, for a flickering moment, and then they both look away. 

“You should. Um. Let me know if you ever want a session, okay?” 

“A session?” Is this flirting? Or is this guy like Seamus the Insulter at the renaissance festival, wandering around looking for targets of opportunity? Or is he just really bad at first impressions, like epically, astonishingly bad?

“Yeah, you know. I’m a personal trainer? I’ve started coaching for some of the other neighbors in the gym downstairs, or sometimes we take it outside, if the weather’s good. Rock Creek, Washington Monument, whatever.” 

  “Did you break the elevator on purpose to try to drum up new clients?” Bucky asks, squinting at him. 

The guy laughs, showing perfectly even white teeth. “I’m Steve,” he says, holding out a hand. Bucky stares at it for a few seconds, slightly worried about what will happen to his hand if he lets this crazy person have it, even for a few seconds. 

  “Bucky,” he says, taking the hand and squeezing down hard. To his surprise, Steve doesn’t crush his hand in response, the way most guys do, but just holds it gently for a few seconds before letting go. “You might want to work on your bedside manner, Steve.” 

Steve laughs again. “Nah, this is Washington, people can get the truth sugar-coated anywhere in this town. My clients come to me because I tell it like it is.” 

  “You tell it like it is,” Bucky repeats, not really knowing what to say to that. “Good luck with that.” 

Steve looks him up and down again, assessing. “You’re not quite a lost cause, I guess. Ex-military?” 

“Me and everyone else in D.C.,” Bucky says. It’s not that good a guess. Anyone could’ve guessed that.

“You’ve got good shoulders, and I guess you haven’t totally ruined whatever good the army did you. Look strong. You got a desk job, though, now, don’t you?” 

  “I’m in cyber security.” 

“Yeah, I figured. You slouch.” Bucky straightens up a little, but Steve, amazingly, is not done. “You just need to work on this,” he pokes Bucky in the belly, “and this,” he taps Bucky on the chest. “Cardio and core, that’ll get you up the stairs a lot easier.” 

  “Thanks for the tip.” _Punk,_ he adds, mentally. Jesus, this guy. 

  “My pleasure,” Steve says, smiling, and god, the smile really takes the edge off the borderline insults he’d just cheerfully thrown in Bucky’s face. He’s got a _great_ smile. Still. Bucky’s perfectly happy in the elevator, thanks very much. 

 “Did you say you’re on ten?” he asks, because Steve’s still standing there, smiling at him, and he doesn’t know what else to say. 

  “Yeah, ten-seventeen, been there for about three months. How about you?” 

“Ten-sixteen,” Bucky says. “You’ve been right across the hall from me for three months? How come I haven’t seen you before?” 

“Probably because you’ve been spending too much time on the elevator,” Steve grins. “See you around, Bucky. And like I said, stop by sometime if you’d like to take me up on the coaching. Looks like you could use it.” 

  And then he’s vaulting up the stairs, and out of sight. 

*

“He _insulted_ you? Just out of the blue, on the stairs?” Natasha is sitting on the edge of his desk, filing her nails, waiting for him to finish what he’s doing so they can go to lunch.

Bucky nods absently, saving the file he’s working on and minimizing the window. “Kind of? He said to call him if I want a ‘session,’ and that it looked like I could use it.” He pushes himself out of his chair and stands up. He thinks about sucking in his gut a little, just to make a point, but fuck that, he doesn’t care if he’s a little beefier than he used to be. He actually kind of likes it. "Which is _complete_ bullshit," he adds, grinning, because it isn't, of course. 

"That's not okay, Bucky." She cracks her knuckles. "Want me to kick his ass?"

"It wasn't like that," Bucky shakes his head. "And there was -" he shakes his head. How to explain that the attention, the teasing, the whole encounter, had felt a little magical? Steve didn't have to stop and offer up a bunch of opinions about Bucky's fitness; he couldn't gone on bounding up whole staircases at one time, no problem. But he had stopped, and he had been awkward and bizarrely charming. "I wasn't offended. It was like he couldn't stop talking, or something." 

“Was he cute, at least?” 

Bucky pretends to think about it for a few seconds. “Only if you’re into that whole ultra-buff Greek god thing,” he says. “Yeah, he was cute. But totally bossy.” 

“I thought you army guys liked them a little bossy.” 

“Nobody likes them _this_ bossy, believe me,” Bucky says, although he recalls, with a rush of embarrassment, the brief fantasy he’d had after his encounter with Steve on the stairs, of Steve pushing him through a punishing workout like the ones they’d done back in Basic Training, yelling at him, poking him in the belly again, telling him to shape up or ship out. 

“Hm,” Natasha murmurs. “So, you going to take him up on it?” 

“No way, I had enough of that in the army. Besides, I don’t want to undo all my hard work.” He pats his belly, which, inarguably, is no longer quite flat. In fact, it curves outward noticeably in his neat office button-down, hovering slightly above his belt buckle. But it’s not like he’s actually _fat._ He’s just…well, big. He’s just a big guy. 

“I admire your commitment to your civilian lifestyle,” Natasha says, smiling. “And that’s a relief, since I thought we could try that new place down the block.” 

“The place with the fancy burgers?” 

“That’s the one.” 

Bucky privately resolves to get the biggest, most calorific, most ridiculously over-the-top burger, which turns out to be two quarter-pound patties smothered in cheese and bacon with a fried egg on top. He adds a huge order of fries and a vanilla bean milkshake, just to be extra perverse. He also finishes off Natasha’s fried chicken sandwich, of which she only manages about half. 

“He’s not going to know you’re defying his orders, you know,” she says, watching him stuff the last of her sandwich into his mouth. “You’re wasting perfectly good disobedience, here.” 

“Might see him on the stairs,” Bucky says. 

“Can you even get up the stairs?” Natasha lifts an eyebrow and glances pointedly at his belt, which he’d actually had to loosen to manage all the food he’d just eaten. 

“Plenty of time to digest between now and then,” Bucky says. But she’s right, he’s incredibly full, and even walking back to his office is uncomfortable; the sheer weight of all the carbs and fat he’d just consumed demanding that he stop moving as soon as possible. He can’t even imagine tackling the stairs in his current condition. He sits down at his desk with a sigh of relief, and loosens his belt one more notch for good measure. 

*

As he’d hoped, he does run into Steve on the stairs again that evening. He stops on the fourth floor landing this time, somehow still full from lunch, and sets his bag of takeout at his feet.

“Hey, Bucky,” Steve says, jogging to a halt on the landing. He seems even more fit and handsome today than he had yesterday, with his blond hair flopping into his eyes and his tight t-shirt showing off perfectly lean, rounded biceps. “Elevator still not working, or did you decide to turn over a new leaf?” 

“No new leaves for me,” Bucky answers. “It’s still busted.” He hesitates for a few seconds, then takes the plunge. “I had an amazing lunch today at the Burger Tap and Shake. Been there?” 

“Oh, man, no way,” Steve says, looking appalled. “They’ve made the list of the most fattening foods in the country two years running, did you know that?” 

“Don’t care,” Bucky says, rubbing a hand over his belly contentedly. “I got a double. Good milkshakes, too.” 

“You’re killing yourself,” Steve says, seriously. “You know that, right?” 

“Nah, men in my family always outlive everybody,” Bucky says. “Healthy as a horse.” 

Steve’s eyes dip down to Bucky’s belly, and Bucky hopes Steve can tell that he’s out two notches on his belt. He inhales and lets his gut stick out a little, just for the hell of it. He has no idea why he’s doing it, except that he likes the way Steve looks at him – not like he’s seeing something he doesn’t like, not at all. Like he’s seeing something he doesn’t _want_ to like, but does anyway. 

Steve shakes his head. “You’ll be the size of a horse, if you keep that up. And what’s in the bag? Tell me it’s something involving grilled chicken and vegetables.” 

“Not even close. Pad Thai, fried crab rangoons, and eclairs. From Le Caprice.” 

The dismay on Steve’s face is tinged with something else Bucky can’t quite define – not anger, but something that brings a slight tinge of color to his angular cheekbones. “Yeah?” he says. “Well, y’know, that’s probably your whole day’s worth of calories right there.” 

“Probably,” Bucky says. “Two days, maybe.” 

“Jesus,” Steve says, staring at the bag. He bites his lip and looks down, then back up again, in a way Bucky can’t help but find oddly charming. “You eating alone?” 

Bucky blinks. “That’s the plan.” 

“Why not bring it over to my place? I’m making low-sodium stir-fry, maybe you could try some of that?” He hefts the bag he’s carrying, which is from the farmer’s market, because of course it is. Some indefinably unpleasant-looking leafy green vegetable is sticking out of the top of the bag, like it’s trying to climb out and make a break for it. 

“I wouldn’t mind the company,” Bucky says, eyeing the creeping vegetation suspiciously. “But you’re on your own with the stir fry. No offense.” 

“None taken,” Steve says. That smile again, so clean, so perfect, so irresistible. 

And just like that, they have a date. 

*

Steve’s apartment is identical to Bucky’s in terms of space and square footage, but as soon as he walks through the door Bucky is struck by how different Steve’s living space is from his own. It’s minimal – no stacks of books or magazines on the coffee table, no pile of mail on the counter – and everything is neat and spare. There are barbells in the corner of the living room, and a little yoga mat rolled up and tossed there, too, like Steve probably can’t just sit down and watch a movie without lifting something heavy while he does it. It’s a sharp contrast to Bucky’s own tendency toward parking his ass on the couch and getting no exercise whatsoever—unless fork to mouth counts—for hours on end while he binge-watches Netflix and binge-eats whatever’s available, usually delivery.

But seriously, this guy’s apartment is as uptight as the rest of him. 

Bucky considers waiting politely to open his takeout cartons until Steve has his stupid low-sodium, low-pleasure stir fry ready. He knows it would be the polite thing to do. But there’s a part of him – the same part of him that ordered that milkshake and fries with his ridiculous burger at lunch – that doesn’t want to be polite. This part of him wants to be as excessive as possible in front of this stupidly handsome stranger who apparently makes a career out of depriving himself and his clients out of food that tastes good.

Steve’s still chopping bok choy when Bucky reaches loudly into his paper bag, crumpling the paper noisily, and pulls out his pad Thai. 

Steve glances at him over his shoulder, and Bucky silently blesses the open floor plan that means Steve can see him on the couch as he cooks. “Don’t wait for me, man, just jump right into your heart attack platter,” Steve says, white teeth flashing again. 

What a fucking jerk. A sexy, sexy jerk. 

“It’s not as good if it gets cold,” Bucky says, just a little defiantly. He shifts, resting the takeout container on this thigh so he can tug at his waistband. He’d been sort of playing it up, how tight his belt is, but as he’s sitting here now, shoving yet another ridiculously excessive meal down his throat, it really does feel uncomfortable, where the little swell of his gut pooches over and his belt buckle digs uncomfortably into the soft chub beneath his belly button. 

“Your jeans would fit better if you didn’t eat that crap,” Steve singsongs helpfully from the kitchen, like he has eyes in the back of his head and can see Bucky tugging at his pants to make room for his belly. 

“Yeah, but ‘m hungry,” Bucky says, purposely waiting to speak until he shoves another bite into his mouth. 

“No you’re not, you’re just used to pigging out.” 

Bucky considers this latest assault on his character. Steve’s not exactly wrong, possibly. He’s definitely an asshole, though. 

And Bucky definitely sort of likes it. 

*

By the time Steve makes it over to the couch, Bucky is scraping up the last of his pad Thai, chasing noodles around with his fork like he’s starving to death. He looks more attractive than he should, the buttons of his shirt straining against the little ball of his belly, his hair shoved back messily and looking like it hasn’t seen scissors in six months, at least. He’s tall and broad—really, really broad—and insanely good looking, a boyish smile and cherub cheeks that practically beg to be pinched.

“So cyber security, huh?” Steve says, taking a seat on the opposite end of the sofa and balancing his plate on his knee. “You like it?”

Bucky shrugs good-naturedly, setting aside his empty container and reaching forward with a little grunt to grab his takeout bag. He pulls out a package of crab rangoons – eight of them, which must be a double order, and yes, Steve is counting – and shoves most of one in his mouth in one bite. “Yeah, it’s all right. I’m good at it, and it pays the bills. Probably more fun than yelling at people to run faster all day.” He slides his eyes slyly over in Steve’s directly and then stuffs the rest of the rangoon in his mouth. 

“I don’t just yell at people to run faster. I also tell them to quit eating deep fried cream cheese,” Steve says, keeping his voice light even though his heart is speeding along faster than it has any right to. 

“These also have crab in ‘em,” Bucky says, and this time he manages to cram an entire one into his mouth. 

“You tell yourself that when you can’t fasten that belt anymore.” Steve knows he’s probably being too aggressive – there’s truth telling and then there’s fat-shaming your chubby neighbor for no good reason except that your dick is half-hard already and the neighbor seems, inexplicably, not to mind – but he can’t quite stop himself. 

Bucky pats his little belly absently. “I let it out a couple notches after lunch,” he says. “So I’m good for a while now, I think. But thanks for the concern.” 

“Is that a double order of those?” Steve asks, forking up a scoop of his own dinner and feeling appropriately righteous about its abstemious calorie count and superior nutritional value. 

Bucky looks down at the rangoons in his lap and plucks out another one, leaving three remaining in the package. “Yeah. Want one?”

“God, no.”

“Good, I didn’t really wanna share anyway,” Bucky says around a greasy mouthful. 

Steve shifts in his seat, just this side of squirming, and tries to figure out what to do with himself, or how he got in this situation, or why the empty couch cushion between himself and this handsome, chubby, mouthy stranger feels like an insurmountable distance that he’s dying to cross. 

While Steve’s screaming internally, Bucky nonchalantly finishes off his rangoons and reaches forward one last time, audibly groaning as he leans over his belly, and rifles through his takeout bag. As promised, eclairs. Jesus. 

_Fuck_ , it’s stupidly hot. _Bucky_ is stupidly hot—but Steve is used to shoving this kind of desire away. The weird, inexplicable rush he gets, watching Bucky eat, or pant his way up the stairs, or groan with the effort of leaning over his own tubby gut. It’s not like Steve’s never felt it before, never thought about it before. But it’s his job, getting people into shape, and yes, it’s perverse, given what he’s jerking off about, but he’s always been good at keeping them separate. At work, he helps people get fit. In his most secret, shameful fantasies, he helps them…not be fit. But now, somehow, it’s like he’s forcefully shoved those two parts of himself together, and he’s playing the role of personal trainer here with Bucky, except not really. He might be telling Bucky he should eat stir fry, but that’s not what he actually wants. What he actually wants is for Bucky to eat every last one of those stupid eclairs, Christ, Steve wants to shove them in his face, wants to say awful shit to him while he does it, maybe.

It’s not the kind of thing you can do, though. You can’t just reach over and grab pastries and shove them in the face of the neighbor you just met, or grab a handful of his generously pudgy stomach, or—Jesus fucking Christ—straddle his lap and grind your dick into his thick thigh and tell him to beg you for eclairs. 

Normal people don’t do that. Normal people don’t even _consider_ doing that. 

Goddamnit. 

Steve inhales shakily, trying not to act as undone as he feels, trying to figure out what a normal human being might do or say on a not-date with someone they just met. Probably _not_ talk about wanting to shove eclairs down people’s throats. (And hey, Bucky seems to have that covered on his own, anyway, as he’s pulled the second éclair out of the bag and is slowly working his way through it, like stuffing himself full of junk is his job.) 

“How long have you lived here?” Steve blurts, and it’s sort of awkward, but he likes Bucky, wants to do this again, and he’s not sure if anyone agrees to a second date with someone whose only topic of dinner conversation is insults. 

Bucky shifts a little, until he’s facing Steve, and carefully licks a little bit of crème filling from the corner of his mouth. “Couple of years,” he says. “Since I’ve been out of the service.”

Steve’s eyes dart down Bucky’s soft, broad chest and to the curve of his tummy—obviously swollen now, _god_ , Steve can’t function like this. He cannot. He clears his throat. “Been out a couple years?” _It shows_ , he thinks but doesn’t say. 

It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t say it, because Bucky seems to know exactly what he’s thinking, and he shoves the last bite of éclair into his mouth and then pushes his belt down a little, letting his belly expand noticeably. “Yup.” He looks up at Steve, and it feels like he’s daring him to say something, sitting there with his gut puffed out, his chubby cheeks pink with exertion, empty food containers surrounding him. 

“You look it,” Steve says, because he is a ridiculous person with no filter and no chill and no ability to resist temptation, apparently. 

Bucky shrugs, drumming strong fingers on the side of his tummy. “I’m just really full right now, is all.” He flashes his eyes up at Steve again – they’re really, really pretty, are they blue? Gray? Steve can’t quite tell – and it feels like a challenge. 

“You look like you’re really full all the time,” Steve shoots back, shamelessly taking the bait. 

Bucky cocks an eyebrow up, slowly, like he’s too full and lazy even to react quickly. He pats his belly one more time. “Nah, this is mostly Thai food. It’ll go down.” 

“That double chin gonna disappear, too?” 

That finally seems to get a rise out of him, and Bucky blinks, twice, before he looks up at Steve— _gray, his eyes are closer to gray than blue,_ Steve thinks wildly—and holds his gaze. “You sure do pay attention to that kinda thing, huh?”

Steve opens his mouth and then shuts it, momentarily off balance. “It’s my job,” he says a little weakly. 

“But you’re not at work right now.” Bucky ‘s pretty pink lips curl up at one side, a hint of dimples showing in his chubby cheeks. “You one of those guys who can’t leave their work at the office, Steve?” 

It’s a good question, and Steve has no idea how to answer it as a million filthy fantasies about putting Bucky through a workout—and then a meal—are flitting through his mind in painful clarity. 

“I bet you are,” Bucky continues, hiccupping behind his hand and shoving himself back against the couch a little more, looking so gratuitously, shamefully full that Steve has to surreptitiously press the heel of his hand against his dick. “You know what they say, pal. All work and no play?” 

“Better than no work,” Steve says, dropping his gaze very pointedly to Bucky’s round middle again. 

“I walked up all those damned stairs. That was plenty of work.”

“The stairs didn’t burn off even a tenth of what you just ate.”

Bucky grins. “Good thing I don’t care, then, isn’t it?” 

_Yes_. Yes, it really, really is. Steve opens his mouth, starts to say something to change the subject, suggest that they put on a movie, something, anything, to justify Bucky staying longer, but Bucky rocks forward and pushes himself off the couch, lazy and ungainly. “Thanks for the company, Steve,” he says. “We should do it again. I’ll get a couple of pizzas. You can come over and not eat any while you give me shit about it.”

It should be sarcastic—and it is, Bucky’s definitely being a little facetious—but the invitation seems weirdly sincere, too, and Steve feels his head spin for what seems like the fiftieth time tonight. “Uh – yeah. Any time,” he finally says. 

“Come by tomorrow,” Bucky says. “Around seven.” And with that, he ambles out of Steve’s apartment, leaving a mess of empty Thai containers spread across Steve’s meticulously clean living room. 

*

In preparation for his second date, or whatever it is, with Steve, Bucky buys a box of donuts for breakfast, heads to the Mongolian barbecue for lunch, and picks up two large pizzas on his way home. He tackles the stairs more briskly than usual and flops down on the sofa, hardly believing he’s actually considering eating both of them just to see what Steve will do about it.

But he is. That’s exactly what he’s doing. 

He hasn’t really thought about it, it’s just been one knee-jerk reaction after another, but he looks at the two pizza boxes and thinks about it, seriously, for the first time. He’s been eating incredible amounts of junk food, more than he would usually eat, just because Steve – a relative stranger – told him he looked out of shape. He’s invited a personal trainer to dinner for the express purpose of eating pizza at him, against said trainer’s unasked-for advice. It makes no sense. 

_Except that it does, sort of,_ he thinks. He remembers the looks Steve had given him on the stairs, the way he’d watched Bucky eat his appallingly calorific dinner the night before, the way he’d eyed Bucky’s belly, like he was beholding some kind of miracle, the more Bucky ate. In a bizarre, backwards, and distinctly _wrong_ way, this feels like flirting. Like showing off for a boy. And the boy in question, no matter what he might say in words, is saying _yes, more, eat more, I love it_ with every other part of his body, Bucky’s almost sure of it. 

And idea flashes across his mind, an image of himself, his increasingly round belly swelling out from beneath the hem of his shirt, and of Steve watching him stuff himself with eyes as round and blue as fine china dinner plates. He feels an electric charge run down his spine just thinking about it. 

The shirt he’s wearing now is relatively new, practically roomy. He hurries to his room to change, selecting an old red shirt worn sheer with washing, the lower hem already tight around his hips. The thin, soft fabric clings to the pudge around his middle, emphasizing its roundness. It’s both embarrassing and thrilling, the way the shirt accentuates how fat he’s getting, and his immediate impulse is that this as a bad idea, dressing to flaunt his obvious lack of fitness, but then he hears the knock at the door, and it’s too late. He smooths the worn cotton fabric over his middle as best he can, and goes to answer the door. 

*

“So what’d you weigh, after basic?” Steve asks, once they’re seated at the table, his nutritionally perfect meal of grilled tilapia sitting neatly on its bed of quinoa and roasted vegetables, and a pizza box open in front of Bucky. “That’s usually peak fitness for most guys.”

“One seventy-five,” Bucky answers, his mouth already full, a little grease dribbling down his chin. He’s so shameless, Steve thinks, arriving at the door in a t-shirt that does nothing to hide the little gut he’s gotten, not even bothering with a plate. He watches as Bucky dips his pizza in a little plastic tub of garlic butter and takes another bite. 

“You know that’s all trans fats, probably, right?” 

“Don’t care.” 

“And how about now? What d’you weigh?” The question feels charged, and Steve feels breathless asking it, even though he manages this same question with new clients every day without even blinking. 

“Dunno,” Bucky says. “More than that, probably.” 

“You think?” Steve shakes his head and takes a small bite of his own dinner, chewing it slowly. It’s good, but the pizza undeniably looks better, covered in pepperoni and sausage and cheese, glistening with the promise of its off-the-charts fat content. 

“Pretty sure,” Bucky says mildly. “Outgrew a bunch of stuff last year, had to buy new jeans, stuff like that.” He shrugs and eats more pizza, washing every bite down with his second full-sugar Coke of the evening, one eyebrow cocked challengingly over a gray-blue eye, as if to ask Steve what he’s going to do about it. 

_Jerk off, that’s what you’re going to do about it,_ says an irritating but completely correct voice in his mind. _Just like last night._ Steve’s eyes drift down from Bucky’s eyes to his chin, which is threatening to double, to his wide, soft pecs, to his belly, where the hem of his shirt has actually flipped over at the end and started to creep up, just very slightly, over the full curve there. His mouth goes dry, and he takes a swig of Italian mineral water enhanced with a hint of lemon rind. 

“Uh,” Steve says. “Oh.” 

Bucky leans forward in his seat, scooting his chair in, and his tummy settles on his lap, just a little bit, until he leans back again. “Aren’t you supposed to give me some helpful advice on how to fit back into those jeans?” Bucky asks. “Count carbs, run more, something like that?” 

“Would you listen to me if I did?” 

“No,” Bucky tells him. “But I like to know you’re taking an interest in my well-being.” 

Which is basically permission to taunt him a little. Which is so exciting Steve feels like he needs to splash cold water on his face. 

He scoots his own chair closer to Bucky’s, and gives him the coolest, most professionally calculating stare he can manage. “Do you even have a bathroom scale? Because if you did, I’m pretty sure it’d tell you you’re up at least forty pounds right now,” he says. “Or fifty. Probably closer to fifty.”

“There’s one around here somewhere,” Bucky says. “In the hall closet, gathering dust.” 

“Well, get it out tomorrow morning and see if I’m not right. Look at this.” He reaches out and pinches a little bit of flab between two fingers, not hard, but not gently, either. “I’d need calipers to be sure, but you’re probably close to 35% bodyfat right now. Which means you’re carrying about 70 pounds of fat at the moment. Most of it right here.” He pokes a finger into the fattest part of Bucky’s belly. 

“Sounds like a problem.” 

“It is. A big, fat problem. And if you keep going like this - ” he catches his breath, because his imagination is already hard at work, picturing Bucky’s belly bigger, sitting in his lap like a beach ball, even when he isn’t leaning over. He forces his attention back to the matter at hand. “-if you do keep eating this way, you’re not just going to be a little chubby. You’re going to get fat. Those stairs are going to get harder. You’ll have to go up another size in jeans. It gets expensive, and not just for your health.” 

“Good thing I’ve got such a high-paying gig, then,” Bucky says, agreeably. 

Steve laughs and relaxes a little, scooting his chair back. “You’re incorrigible, do you know that?” 

“It’s come up before.” 

“Fat’s practically a dirty word nowadays, you know. Most people in your situation would be panicking. And look at you. You’re already starting on your second pizza.” 

“Well,” Bucky says. “If I wait too long, I’ll start feeling full, and then I won’t be able to eat it.” And he eats the second pizza, meeting Steve’s eyes every time he takes a bite. 

*

After that, they meet up almost every night for dinner.

Steve makes _sous vide_ salmon and egg white omelets and boneless, skinless chicken breasts on top of salads and brown rice and vegetables; Bucky carts home boxes of fried chicken and biscuits, burgers, pizzas and roast beef sandwiches with small mountains of seasoned fries. Steve gives Bucky shit about it, and Bucky takes it. Bucky gets a little fatter, then a little fatter still, and Steve goes to bed almost every night with a hard-on so intense it’s almost painful, and he comes almost as soon as he touches himself.

Steve also _likes_ Bucky. A lot. Likes the easy, uncomplicated way he does exactly what he wants, damn the consequences. Likes his charm and his sense of humor, his earnestness when he talks about his job. And god, oh _god_ , does he like to watch him eat. 

He’s standing up, doing some bicep curls while the two of them watch a movie together, one of those stupid things about a dinosaur park that inevitably spirals out of control, resulting in spectacular dinosaur carnage, and Bucky’s sitting on the sofa, polishing off the last of what looks like a small bucket of mashed potatoes and gravy. 

“I had a feeling you did that, the first time I saw those weights by the TV,” Bucky says. “Can’t you just sit still for an hour?” 

“It’s bad for you,” Steve says absently. “Sitting too much. As bad as not working out.” 

“Huh,” Bucky says. “So I should join you?” 

“As if you could,” Steve says. “And you’d have to – have to button your pants.” Halfway through his dinner, Bucky had leaned back, sucked in his gut – with obvious difficulty – and flicked open the top button of his jeans, letting his belly swell forward with a sigh of relief. Which was the real reason Steve had leaped off the sofa to pump some iron, with his eyes fixed firmly on the CGI bloodbath unfolding on the TV screen. 

There’s a short pause, then Bucky says, “Well, look at that. Had a feeling this might happen soon.” 

Steve turns around to look. Bucky is holding the two halves of his jeans up, trying to join them in the middle, but it’s obviously not going to happen. There’s a little “V” of belly visible in that inverted triangle of space; a round, gorgeous curve. Bucky jostles his belly a little, trying again, but there are several inches between the button and the loop, no matter what he does. 

Steve feels a little faint and puts the dumbbells down. Slowly. Keeping his head above his heart. 

“Good thing I only have to walk across the hall,” Bucky says, releasing his fly and settling back into the sofa cushions. “How embarrassing.” 

But he doesn’t look embarrassed. He looks weirdly proud of himself, the way most of Steve’s clients look when they’ve finally struggled back into the jeans they wore in college. Bucky strokes a hand gently over his belly, which looks visibly distended from all the food he’d eaten, and Steve’s trained eye can tell that he’s packed on several more pounds since they first started eating together. He’d been 220, maybe 225 when they’d met, and it’s got to be more than that now. His mind hums with numbers, and with a weird, urgent curiosity. 235? 240? He studies the love handles that have settled around Bucky’s hips, the way his thighs spread on the sofa, filling the jeans tight. Maybe even a tiny bit more? 

“You don’t even have to go that far,” Steve says, without thinking. “You could stay here, if you want.” 

*

Bucky raises his eyebrows and gives Steve a purposely unreadable look. _You could stay here, if you want._ God, it’s been weeks and weeks of this, Bucky stuffing himself so full he can barely take a breath by the time he waddles his ass home in the evenings, before Steve finally makes a move.

A perverse little voice in the back of Bucky’s head tells him he should turn Steve down, make him wait a little longer, just because he’s such a dick and that’s the kind of game they’re playing here, but he can’t make himself do it. Partly because he wants to touch Steve so badly his whole body aches with it, and partly because he’s so fucking full of fried chicken and biscuits and mashed potatoes and gravy that he doesn’t want to entertain the thought of pulling himself off the couch, let alone hauling himself across the hall to his own apartment. 

“Cool,” he says. “I don’t think I could get up right now, anyway.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Steve says, eyes glued to the inches of swollen belly fat that are exposed between the useless flaps of Bucky’s jeans. 

Bucky heaves a deep breath and sprawls back farther against the couch, letting his belly push forward even more. “You’re the trainer, buddy. You’re not supposed to encourage this behavior.” He meets Steve’s gaze and holds it. 

“I’m not encouraging it,” Steve lies. “You just ate so much you’re too fat to get off my couch. That’s not my fault.”

Bucky smirks a little, because Steve is fucking ridiculous and this game—this weird, weird game that any normal person would think was, at best, weird, and at worst, cruel—is so damned much fun. “Nope, not your fault at all, ‘course not. You got any dessert, though?” Bucky looks down at the scattered food containers around him, feeling his chin double as he does it. “I need something sweet.”

“The last thing you need is anything sweet. You literally just sat here and ate your way out of your clothes.”

Bucky shrugs. “That was a long time coming. I had to lay down flat and suck my gut in to button those this morning. It was a matter of time.”

Steve’s eyes glaze a little, like he’s imagining Bucky struggling to button his jeans—which was exactly what Bucky wanted him to do—and then Steve takes a breath. “I—uh. No. I don’t have anything sweet.” He looks weirdly bereft and almost sincere when he says it, and Bucky sort of wants to take pity on him. Sort of. 

“You oughtta run your skinny little ass across the hall, then. There are Girl Scout cookies on my kitchen counter.”

“Girl Scout cookies,” Steve repeats, sounding a little dazed. “You have Girl Scout cookies.”

“Yeah, it was a good cause,” Bucky says, grinning. “Only right, buy a few boxes.”

“A few.” 

“Seven.”

“Christ, Bucky.”

“Apparently you didn’t buy any at all, when they came around door-to-door? You’re such a dick, Steve, how can you turn down eight-year-olds with cookies?”

Steve huffs, looking genuinely defensive. “I didn’t! I gave them a $20 donation to their troop!”

“Bo-ring,” Bucky singsongs.

Steve rolls his eyes and then holds out his hand. “Gimme your key, tubby.” 

Bucky inhales hard, shifting to one side and shoving his hand into his pocket to dig out his key fob. The jeans really are stupidly tight, and his gut sits on his thighs when he leans forward like this, which makes everything harder to maneuver. 

“Here!” he says triumphantly, when he finally fishes it out. 

Steve snatches the key and looks him up and down. “You work on catching your breath after all that effort, and I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, and yeah, fine, he _is_ panting a little, but he’s really fucking full. 

*

Steve’s heart is pounding when he returns with the cookies. As promised, there had been seven boxes of cookies lined up on Bucky’s kitchen counter, and he’d just grabbed one at random, too keyed up to put much thought into it.

“Oh, you got the Tagalongs. Good call,” Bucky says when he walks in, sounding annoyingly relaxed. He’s flopped down horizontally, his booted feet propped up on the arm of the couch like he owns the place, and he looks entirely too pleased with himself, like he’s got the upper hand somehow. 

(The way Steve’s heart is racing, it’s entirely possible that Bucky _does_ have the upper hand, if Steve’s honest with himself. But he’s not going to keep it, no matter how cocky he looks, sprawled out on the couch with his gut in the air.) 

“You raised in a barn?” Steve asks, ignoring the cookie commentary and nodding toward Bucky’s feet. 

“Sorry, pal, I needed to stretch out. Stomach hurts.” Bucky doesn’t sound sorry at all. 

Steve opens the box and pulls out a sleeve of cookies, and then takes a deep, fortifying breath. Fuck it. Bucky’s _clearly_ asking for this. He sits down on the edge of the sofa, next to Bucky’s bloated tummy, and then plucks a cookie out of the roll and shoves it between Bucky’s lips. He’s not gentle at all. “No wonder your stomach hurts. You eat too much,” he says, every fiber of his being concentrated on delivering his words casually. He thinks he does a pretty good job of it, too, except for the way his hands are shaking. 

Bucky, bless him takes the cookie from him in one big bite and chews it with his mouth slightly open, which should be disgusting but isn’t. “Girl Scout Cookies don’t count. I’m doing a public service, helpin’ out the kids,” he says, and he doesn’t even blink when Steve shoves another cookie in his face before he’s even swallowed all of the first one. 

Steve shakes his head. “Shoving cookies down your throat isn’t a public service, Bucky. Look at you.” He grabs a handful of Bucky’s tummy, the softest, fattest part of him, below his navel, and squeezes. He maintains his grip on Bucky’s chub with his left hand and digs out another cookie with the right, and this time he doesn’t just put it between Bucky’s lips and wait for him to take it. He pushes it forward, doesn’t give Bucky a choice, and _jesus, fuck, fuck_ , Bucky just takes it, lets crumbs fall down his chubby chin and keeps chewing. 

“You’re getting so fucking fat,” Steve says, and he can hear how fucked out his voice sounds, raspy and harsh and desperate, and he can’t seem to stop the barrage of words that keep tumbling out. “So greedy, you should be ashamed of yourself. Gonna get so fat that the next time the elevator breaks you’ll never make it up.”

Bucky shrugs, mouth too full to speak until he swallows again. “Probably. That’s why I’ve got my boots up on your couch. Too full to reach down and take ‘em off.” He holds Steve’s gaze, his eyes bright, and when Steve stacks two cookies on top of each other and thrusts them both into his mouth, rough and fast, he doesn’t even blink. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Steve breathes, and Bucky just grins around another mouthful of chocolate and peanut butter, letting Steve push cookie after cookie down his throat. 

There are two left in the box when Bucky holds up a hand. “Gimme—just a sec,” he wheezes, and Steve has a sudden, horrifying moment when he thinks Bucky might barf all over his couch, which is _not_ what he was going for. 

But Bucky just reaches down and presses on his tummy a few times, like he’s trying to rearrange the ridiculous glut of food in his belly, and then stifles a few burps behind his hand. “Christ, I’m fucking full, Steve.”

“There’s two left.” Steve looks down at Bucky, at the swollen, taut curve of his bloated gut, at his red cheeks and shallow breath. He looks _fat_ , bloated and uncomfortable, and so, so sexy. “Eat them and I’ll blow you.”

Bucky grins, squirming against the couch and gently rubbing his belly. “Hand ‘em over.”

Steve stacks them up again and pushes them hard between Bucky’s lips, forcefully, like it’s a punishment that he has to eat them, and just like he has all night, Bucky just takes it, gray-blue eyes wide and guileless and locked on Steve. 

Steve moves slowly, carefully, pulling Bucky’s useless jeans down. Bucky has to lift his hips in order for Steve to get them off, and he groans when he does it, like lifting himself three inches off the sofa is almost too much to ask. 

“Look at you,” Steve murmurs, pulling Bucky’s boxers down a few inches and revealing angry red indentations where the elastic has dug into the soft blubber of his lower belly and his hips. “You’re too fat for these, too.”

Bucky grunts, not bothering to look down. He’s breathing hard, almost panting, and his eyes have slipped shut. “I know. Need new ones. Need new everything.”

Steve tugs the boxers the rest of the way down, and he can’t help but inhale at the sight of Bucky, nearly naked, his t-shirt rucked up over his enormous belly, thick cock bouncing up to lay against his soft underbelly. He looks fat, and lazy, and stuffed, and so ridiculously fucking sexy that Steve has to look away, half-afraid he’ll come in his pants. 

“Shh,” he says, which is a stupid thing to say, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind. He leans forward, presses a kiss right below Bucky’s deep belly button. “Shh, just let me.”

And Bucky does.

Steve’s always liked oral sex – liked the intimacy of it, the mess, the trust it requires. This, though – having Bucky Barnes’ cock shoved down his throat, his forehead pushed up against Bucky’s fat gut, one hand gripping Bucky’s wide thigh and the other clutching a handful of chub at Bucky’s thick side – feels so dizzyingly intimate that Steve almost forgets to breathe. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” Bucky mumbles above him, his first real indication that he’s as overwhelmed as Steve. “Oh, _god_.”

Bucky tastes wonderful, heavy on Steve’s tongue, and _Jesus_ , Steve could drill diamonds with his dick, could use it as a battering ram and storm a goddamned castle with it. He’s never been so hard in his life. 

Bucky’s all mouth, even now, and Steve can tell when he’s getting close, as the _oh fuck_ mantra subtly shifts, until Bucky’s panting, “Shit, shit, shit,” obscene and breathy, and suddenly, “Steve, I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna—“

Steve abandons the easy pace he’s set and opens his throat, swallows Bucky down whole, all the way to the base, and Bucky’s whole body tenses, then reels with his orgasm. 

“God—god—fuck, _god_ ,” Bucky blasphemes, and Steve swallows hard. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Bucky says when Steve pulls off and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Steve raises his eyebrow. “You okay?” Bucky looks very much not okay, bloated and sweaty and pinned to the couch, like every one of Steve’s worst fantasies come to beautiful technicolor life. 

“Mmm, yeah, I’m good.” Bucky shifts his weight, dropping a hand to his belly, making it wobble under his palm. “I hope you don’t expect me to return the favor right this instant, though. I don’t think I can get up.” He grins like it’s a joke, and it sort of is, but Steve kind of wonders-- _could_ he get up right now? It would be a struggle, for sure. 

“You don’t—I don’t—“

Steve’s stammering, and Bucky cuts him off. “C’mere.” He pulls Steve down, until he’s sprawling over Bucky, straddling one chubby thigh and bracing himself over Bucky’s chest. 

“Watch the gut, okay?” Bucky says, squirming a little under Steve. “But just—“ he trails off, then shoves his thigh up until it’s pressed up against Steve’s dick. “Here.”

It’s not the most romantic—or even the smoothest—move Steve’s ever seen, but _fuck_ , it doesn’t have to be. All Steve needs is that little bit of friction, that connection between his poor, aching cock, trapped between the thin layer of his trainers and Bucky’s pudgy thigh. 

“I— _god_ —“ Steve can’t seem to get his brain-to-mouth connection online, and he stammers some more, grinding hard against Bucky, careful to balance over his fat, tender belly. “I could—“

“Come,” Bucky interrupts, and it’s almost, not quite, a command. 

“Oh, _fuck_ , there, there, god, yes y-yes,”

“There,” Bucky echoes, grabbing Steve’s hips and pulling him closer, rocking him through his orgasm. “There you go.”

*

It should feel weird, getting into Steve’s bed with him, not to fuck but just to go to sleep. It should, it really, really should. They’ve just had the weirdest sex Bucky’s ever had, and they haven’t even kissed yet.

But it doesn’t feel weird. It just _doesn’t._ Steve’s his usual charming self—“Think you can drag your ass to bed or do I need to roll you?”—and his quilt smells like dryer sheets, and when Bucky flops down between the covers, Steve casually drapes an arm over him, lets his long skinny fingers rest on Bucky’s enormously bloated tummy, rubbing gentle circles into it. 

The next morning, he sends Natasha a text that says _He’s bossy in bed too_. 

*

It’s funny, how the littlest things now seem frantically erotic, how the food inevitably interwoven into every day becomes less about nourishment and more about sex; how charged Steve’s life seems to be, now that he and Bucky are doing whatever it is they’re doing.

He takes a picture of himself enjoying green tea at Starbucks, and Bucky counters, a little while later, with a snap of himself taking a bite of a brownie in his office kitchen. Steve stares at it, immediately turned on to a degree that seems like an act of public indecency, given that he’s standing in the gym right now, putting a client through his paces. 

“Two minutes at 80% of your max HR!” he barks at the client, who adjusts the incline of the treadmill accordingly and picks up his pace. But into his phone, Steve taps out _eat the rest of them and text me the results._ The results are, as he’d hoped, a snap of Bucky’s belly resting on the tops of his thighs, pulling the buttons of his shirt taut, a sight so electric it makes Steve turn red and slap his phone against his chest, lest anyone else see the seemingly innocuous picture glowing on the screen. 

It’s not innocuous. It’s not innocent. It feels so wrong, so absolutely counter to everything he stands for, so _bad,_ in the best possible way. As soon as he sends his client to the showers, sweaty and spent, he locks his office door and shoves his track pants down, jerking off frantically to the image on his phone. 

Afterward – after collapsing in his desk chair and letting the last few tremors of his orgasm pulse through him, leaving him feeling hot and dirty and a little removed from reality - he cleans up and types, hands still shaking a little, _How about a real date?_

Bucky gets right back to him. _You want to be seen in public with me? ;) Isn’t that hazardous to your livelihood?_

_Fuck my livelihood. Tonight? 7 o’clock? I’ll take you to the Capital Grille._

Even after the date is set, Steve feels like he’s vibrating all day, a low-level thrum of excitement starting low in his belly and radiating out through his blood to every part of his body. A date. A _dinner_ date. Dinner somewhere other than his or Bucky’s apartment, in a public place. 

He wonders what it will be like. 

*

“I’ll have a kale salad to start,” Steve says. “And the grilled chicken with asparagus as my main.”

“Excellent,” the server says, not bothering to write any of it down. He turns to Bucky. “And you, sir?” 

“He’ll have the jumbo lump crab cakes and prosciutto-wrapped mozzarella to start,” Steve interjects, “And the New York strip, and the lobster mac’n cheese.” 

“The lobster macaroni is on our sharing menu. It’s enough for four people.” the server informs Bucky, glancing at Steve, then back at Bucky, clearly confused. “Shall I, uh, bring an extra plate?” 

“No thanks,” Bucky says, handing over his menu. 

“I’m not kidding, it’s like this,” the server holds his hands about a foot apart in illustration. 

“Perfect,” Steve says. “Thanks. And we’ll be needing a dessert menu, too.” 

As soon as the server is gone, Bucky meets Steve’s eyes across the table. “You’re definitely the weirdest personal trainer I’ve ever met.” 

Steve kicks him gently under the table. “You’re the weirdest cyber-security expert I’ve ever met.” 

“This whole thing is weird,” Bucky says, but he smiles when he says it, because it’s weird in a nice way. A way that feels intimate and exciting. It’s a shared weirdness, which is infinitely superior to being weird alone. “You really expect me to eat all that stuff?” Just asking the question makes him feel breathless, as breathless as Steve ordering for him had made him feel. 

“You think you can?” 

Bucky leans back and tugs at his belt, which is a little loose, and at the waistband of his jeans. “I wore my biggest pants,” he explains. “So I don’t see why not.” He’d also eaten a relatively small lunch, anticipating a big dinner tonight. But there’s something about doing this, whatever it is, in public, that’s both thrilling and a little scary. The restaurant is full of patrons. And they’re performing what amounts to a sex act, if past meals are anything to go by, in full sight of everyone in the restaurant. 

“Those pants won’t be big for long, the way you’re going,” Steve says. “Look at you. It’s getting ridiculous.” His voice is hushed, like he’s imparting a dirty secret. 

“I know,” Bucky says, leaning across the table, voice low. “These are 38s, can you believe that? Thirty. Eight. And they have to ride low or they won’t fasten at all.” 

“Jesus,” Steve says. “We can’t start like this or we’ll never make it all the way through dinner.” 

After that, they talk about their jobs, their childhoods, the election, anything, but it’s hard to pay much attention to any of it, once the food is on the table. Steve murmurs little words of encouragement here and there, and Bucky’s mouth is full, so the conversation lapses, although the dinner doesn’t get any less interesting as a result. 

“You’re doing so good,” Steve says, when Bucky finishes his appetizers, and “Oh my god, you’re amazing,” when Bucky starts in on his steak. 

Bucky has to take a break between the steak and the macaroni and cheese, which is, as promised, enormous. Intimidating, even. It’s an entire casserole dish full of creamy, cheesy pasta, with succulent-looking chunks of lobster visible throughout. It looks delicious, even though Bucky’s appetite is beyond sated, his belly already so full he’s had to push back from the table a little to accommodate it. 

“So,” he says, poking at the dish with his fork. “Do all of your clients gain fifty pounds within a few months of meeting you?” 

It’s really satisfying, watching the blood drain from Steve’s face. “What?” he asks, hoarsely.

Bucky just smiles. 

“Are you sure? You weighed yourself?” 

“I was two-thirty or so when we met, I think. Thereabouts, anyway. As of a couple weeks ago, two-eighty-five.” He pats his belly – gently, because he’s incredibly full – and adds, “Well. Two-eighty-six.” 

“Two-eighty-six,” Steve breathes. He looks really cute, Bucky thinks, with his mouth hanging open. He pulls himself together with a visible effort and says, “I bet it’s more, now.” 

“Probably.” 

“Sure, that’s a completely normal thing to do. Stuff your boyfriend full of macaroni and steak and whatever else, then take him home and weigh him. Nothing weird about that.”

“You don’t want to?” 

“Didn’t say that.” 

“Am I really your boyfriend?” 

“If you want to be,” Bucky says, suddenly embarrassed by his presumption. “I mean, you don’t – we don’t have to - ” 

“No,” Steve says quickly, reaching over to rest his hand on top of Bucky’s. “I like it. I want to be your boyfriend. If that’s okay with you.” 

“Good,” Bucky says, and he starts in on the macaroni with his free hand, happier than he can ever remember being. 

*

“I just ate twenty pounds of macaroni and a two-pound steak,” Bucky complains, when they finally get back to Steve’s apartment. “Just let me sit down.”

“We’ll deduct ten pounds for dinner,” Steve promises, running into the bathroom, retrieving a futuristic-looking scale made of stainless steel and glass and placing it reverently on the kitchen floor. “Please, babe? For me?” 

It’s the “babe” that does it. Bucky feels a thrill at the endearment, and a little wave of affection for Steve, who had just bought him an outrageous dinner and who had been so attentive on the ride back to the building, keeping one hand on Bucky’s uncomfortably swollen belly and admonishing the Uber driver to take it easy on the potholes. 

Bucky hefts his belly up in both hands, feeling the weight of it, and sighs, shuffling over to the scale and stepping onto it. Digital numbers scramble on the screen, like they’ve just been surprised and are having trouble configuring themselves, presented with such a heavy object. 

They finally stop flickering and settle. 298. 

“Jesus,” Bucky says, at the same time that Steve says, “Oh my god, baby.” They look at each other. 

“You haven’t even had dessert yet,” Steve says, grinning and nodding at the two stacked boxes on the counter. 

“Don’t remind me,” Bucky says, rubbing his full tummy. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten so much in my life.” 

“How does it feel?” 

“It feels like being incredibly full. At fucking fat.” 

“Steve puts his hands on Bucky’s stomach, slides them out around the sides to the bottom and heft, as Bucky had just done. “Feels so heavy,” he says. 

“It is. My back hurts just from carrying it around.” 

“I can give you exercises for that,” Steve says quietly. 

“Now you want me to exercise?” Bucky asks, laughing. When he laughs, his belly jiggles painfully, and he leans over, trying to stop. “Jesus, you perv. Look at this. This is all your fault, y’know.” 

“You’re the one who ate all that stuff,” Steve says. “You’re the one who always orders two pizzas and eats junk all day and never takes the stairs unless the elevator’s broken.” 

“And you’re the one who likes it.” 

Steve frowns. “Don’t you?” 

Bucky moves over to the sofa and sits down, leaning back to grip the back of the sofa before lowering himself, like a pregnant woman, working around the round globe of his belly. “Yeah,” he says. “I do. I like eating. I like knowing how much you like it. I like feeling full, kind of stretched out from the inside, you know?” As he says it, he realizes how true it is. He likes this, right now, feeling almost incapacitated by all the food he’d just eaten, feeling bloated and swollen and huge, likes the way his belly settles over his loosened belt and rests on his thighs. He spreads his legs, lets his belly sink down between them, and likes that, too, the reassuring weight of it on his lap. He looks at Steve’s face, and likes that best of all, the rapt, utter fascination he finds there, the abject helplessness his bigger, rounder body inspires in his new boyfriend. 

His _boyfriend._ His weird, wonderful, personal trainer boyfriend, who secretly wants to feed him until he feels like he’ll pop, who’s so obviously been riding on a tide of barely-suppressed lust all evening. 

“C’mere,” he says, patting what’s left of his lap. “But be gentle with me, okay? I had a big dinner.” 

*

“I thought you said this guy was a personal trainer,” Natasha says, a few weeks after Steve and Bucky have made things more or less official. “What’s going on, here? I thought for sure he’d be taking you to juice bars and hiking dates or whatever.” Natasha is like this; she likes to understand things that seem anomalous, and turns an analytical eye to anything that seems outside the norm. But Bucky couldn’t explain what’s going on with himself and Steve even if he wanted to, so he doesn’t even try.

“We just went to a juice bar this morning. I got a smoothie,” Bucky says, pointing to the 32-ounce smoothie cup on his desk. “Steve says they’re full of empty calories. This one has two bananas in it. And 140 grams of sugar.” “How is that even possible?” Natasha says, picking up the cup and studying it, as if it might reveal its sweet, sugary secrets to her. “And why are you drinking it, if it’s so bad for you?” 

“I like it, it tastes good,” Bucky says. “Steve doesn’t care. I think he gets tired of everyone’s obsession with fitness.” 

“Well, you’re definitely a breath of fresh air, then,” Natasha says, shaking her head. Then, smiling, she adds, “I’m super happy for you. You really like him? He’s good to you? I’ll kill him if he’s not, you know that, right?” 

“He’s the best,” Bucky says, sincerely. “I really don’t foresee a need for you to assassinate anyone in the near future. So you can stand down.” 

“And he really isn’t trying to get you to, y’know, work out more? Or at all? Even though you’re…” she trails off, waving a vague hand in the direction of his ever-expanding belly. It’s funny, Bucky thinks, that “fat” is such a loaded, almost criminal word. That nobody ever says it, even though they must all be thinking it, whenever they see him. He’s pushing 300. Hell, he’s probably pushed right past it. Which means he’s gained a staggering amount of weight, and it couldn’t be more obvious. 

“You know how you and that guy Clint, down in tactical analysis, sometimes get on the elevator together and then it gets stuck in the basement for a little while, and then his tie’s always crooked when you guys finally get off?” He lets the term “get off” hang in the air, unmodified. Natasha doesn’t blush – she never does – but she lifts her chin a little, which is her version of blushing. 

“Yeah,” she says. “So?” 

“I never ask about that,” Bucky says. 

Natasha smiles. “Fair point, Barnes.” 

*

Even if Steve weren’t painfully interested in every extra ounce of chub that Bucky had been piling on his already-overloaded frame, he’d notice it. It’s his job; the other trainers at the gym joke that if Steve ever gets tired of training, he can get work at a carnival guessing people’s weight. He’s just that good at it. And when it’s Bucky? When every extra inch and roll makes Steve so fucking turned on he can’t see straight? God. He can’t _not_ notice it.

So when Bucky piles on a few more pounds, on top of the nearly eighty he’s already gained, Steve notices. Hell, even if he weren’t a trainer and a pervert, he might have noticed these last few. Red lines pop up on Bucky’s belly, seemingly overnight, down low under his belly button where the impressively round ball of his belly is starting, just a little, to droop. His ass gets wider, and dimples form on each cheek and the back of his thighs, which are rubbing together a little as he walks. The rolls at his sides get thicker, a ring of plush flab that encircles his entire waist, and little stretchmarks appear on his love handles, too. His double chin is permanent and unmistakable. 

Steve thinks he looks beautiful, and fat, and so overwhelmingly sexy that it’s almost more than he can bear to think about it. 

What Steve says, though, is, “We oughtta weigh you again, pal,” as he pokes a finger into the center of Bucky’s swollen belly like he’s the Pillsbury Doughboy. 

“How come you always wait till I’m so full I can’t move before you want me to do that, huh?” As he speaks, he fishes the last blue corn agave tortilla chip out of the bag and uses it to scrape up the remains of his second bowl of nacho cheese – the processed, aggressively orange kind that Steve assures Bucky is made of nothing but chemicals and trans fat, and that Bucky can practically drink by the glass – and then idly pats the side of his gut. “Can’t we do this when I’m not so full?”

Steve leans over, running a hand over Bucky’s enormous belly and dropping a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “You’re always so full you can’t move, Buck,” he whispers, mouth hovering over Bucky’s until Bucky shifts and kisses him back, warm and lazy. 

“Bring the scale out here,” Bucky demands when they pull apart. “I don’t wanna go all the way back there.”

“Lazy,” Steve admonishes, grabbing Bucky by the lower belly, thumb in his navel like it’s a handle, fingers grasping the soft flab rolling over his too-tight sweats. “Getting so lazy, babe.”

Bucky pokes a finger into his own belly, right above where Steve’s gripping him. “This is heavy,” he defends himself.

“I know,” Steve says, eyes still locked on Bucky’s belly for a second before he pulls himself together and goes to get the scale. 

Steve holds his breath when Bucky shuffles toward the scale. It’s stupid, being so invested in this ultimately arbitrary number on the scale, but he can’t help it. Thinking about that number – about how high it is, about how it keep shooting upwards as Bucky expands outwards – is so explosively, crazily hot that he can barely stand it. 

Bucky’s over 300 now. He knows it. 

“Can you even see over your gut?” Steve asks when Bucky steps dutifully onto the scale.

“Nope.” Bucky shakes his head complacently. “You’re gonna have to read it to me.”

The digital readout flashes erratically for a moment, and then three letters pop up on the screen: “ERR.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Steve breathes.

“What?” Bucky leans forward, trying and failing to peer over the enormous ball of his belly. 

“You’re too fat for the scale,” Steve says, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Bucky, grabbing hold of his chubby sides and squeezing. It’s hard to get close to Bucky, when they hug like this. His belly takes up all the space between them, and Steve thinks there might not be anything hotter in the world than feeling Bucky’s fat balloon of a belly smooshed up against his own lean abs. “It just has an error message.”

“Huh,” Bucky says, like he’s considering the implications. He steps off the scale and further into Steve’s arms. “That means I hit 300, huh?”

“Yup.” Steve steps back and eyes Bucky critically up and down, then reaches out and tugs his t-shirt—already stretched to the max and too short to cover the last few inches of his stomach—up to his chest, revealing the entirety of his big gut and the thick stacked rolls of pudge at his sides. “Probably 315, at least.” He clucks his tongue. “Shows, too.”

“Does it?” Bucky’s voice is purposely innocent, but his wide eyes are sly, peering up at Steve from under the twin fans of his stupidly long, pretty eyelashes. 

Steve grins, all teeth, and rocks back on his heels. “Sure does, fatty. You looked in a mirror lately? You’re fatter all over. That double chin and those chipmunk cheeks?” He reaches out and pinches Bucky’s cheek like a grandma. “Look at all that pudge.”

Bucky blushes a little, his cherub cheeks pinking up, but he doesn’t lower his gaze. 

“Most of it’s right here, though,” Steve continues, putting a palm on either side of Bucky’s stomach and then giving it a vicious shake. Bucky groans, and Steve knows his belly has to be tender, overfull and sore, but he jiggles it one more time anyway. “Look at that jelly belly, Buck.”

“Oof,” Bucky says, cradling his gut. “Be careful, pal, I’m full.”

“That’s why you’re so fat.” Steve slides his hands around to Bucky’s sides. “That’s why you’ve got stretchmarks here.” He pinches a generous handful. “Your skin can’t keep up with all that flab.”

Bucky squirms around to one side, peering down. “It’s hard to see ‘em,” he says. “I can feel it, though. Can’t put my arms down like I used to. Not as much room.”

“Look like the Michelin Man,” Steve murmurs, and it should be mean—it _is_ mean—but it’s not. Not really. Not when Steve’s heart is pounding out of his chest, when every brush of his hand across Bucky’s wide, fat body feels like a caress, a kiss, a desperate love word he’s stamping across his lover’s skin. 

“You love it,” Bucky says. “Pervert.”

“Takes one to know one,” Steve sasses back pointlessly, and Bucky just grins, like he knows he has Steve wrapped around his chubby finger. 

“Let’s go to bed,” he says, and Steve follows him without a second thought, leaving the lights on, the scale out, and the remnants of Bucky’s family-size-bag-of-chips-and-cheese snacks still spread across his otherwise immaculate living room. 

*

The first time Steve meets Natasha, Bucky is more nervous than he wants to admit.

He feels fat, first of all, well and truly fat, and he’s outgrowing all of his clothes _again_. Normally he peels off his work clothes the moment he gets home and then sits around shamelessly in his sweats, letting the bottom few inches of his tummy peek out from his t-shirts to rest on his thighs. With Natasha coming over, that’s not an option, but even his biggest pair of jeans are hard to button, and he feels like they’re cutting him in half. 

Then there’s the fact that Steve and Natasha have a weirdly similar streak that he’s not sure is going to work very well together. They’re both aggressive, bossy, forceful – and they both have a weird kind of fragility, too, even if they don’t admit it. 

He’s a little afraid they’re going to hate each other. 

Since he’s nervous, he orders extra food, and by the time Natasha rings his doorbell, he’s on his third egg roll, and the coffee table is piled high with takeout boxes. 

Everyone is on their best behavior at first, and Steve makes polite, even charming conversation about Natasha’s work, and Bucky’s, and the weather. It’s cute, seeing this side of him, all polite like a kid meeting his girlfriend’s parents. He’s dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, his flop of blond hair combed neatly to one side and his little takeout box of low-oil chicken and broccoli, no rice, perched on his knee. He looks so earnestly sweet that Bucky can barely resist the urge to reach over and mess him up, tousle his hair and drip sweet and sour sauce on his shirt and kiss him till he’s breathless. 

Natasha, for her part, seems equally dedicated to making a good first impression, although she’s swapped out her work clothes for ripped up jeans and a Pussy Riot t-shirt. Eventually, though – right around the time that Bucky opens the orange chicken, his third entrée of the evening – her gaze turns calculating, and Bucky can almost guess what’s coming before she opens her mouth. 

“So, Steve, you’re a personal trainer?” 

_Goddamn it._

“I am,” Steve says, big blue eyes as clear as a summer sky. “It’s a great gig. I love working with people.”

“I bet. Helping people be their best self and all. It’s a lifestyle thing, right?”

Steve nods, calling Natasha’s bluff. “Absolutely. It’s a really rewarding job, helping people make positive changes in their life. “ “Absolutely.” Natasha nods seriously and then reaches over with a chopstick and pokes Bucky firmly in the fattest part of his belly. “So how come your boy here is barely fitting behind his desk these days?”

“Hey!” Bucky says, mildly indignant. “Why you have to bring me into this?”

Before Nat can answer, Steve’s staring at Bucky. “You can’t fit behind your desk?”

A pervert. His boyfriend is a shameless, shameless pervert. 

“I can fucking fit,” Bucky grumbles. 

“It’s a tight squeeze,” Natasha says, speaking directly to Steve. “So, what gives? Aren’t you supposed to be living the lifestyle, Mr. Personal Trainer? Just seems weird, that Bucky’s not looking very, uh, personally trained.”

Fucking Natasha. Bucky flips his gaze up at Steve, feeling a little bit like a spectator at a sporting match. 

“Bucky isn’t getting personally trained,” Steve says, and his expression isn’t one that Bucky’s ever seen before. It’s not the weirdly earnest sweetness that occasionally pops up when Bucky least expects it, like when Steve’s giving charitable donations to Girl Scouts or calling Bucky ‘baby,’ squeezing his hand at a restaurant or in a movie theater. It’s not the cocky grin he gets when he’s telling Bucky how fat he’s getting, or even the dedicated seriousness he gets when he’s talking about, say, the unsung health benefits of the avocado or something equally boring. 

This is an entirely new expression, and Bucky can’t quite place it.

“He’s not getting personally trained because he’s not my client, he’s my boyfriend, and I would never, ever expect him to feel like he had to be interested in what I’m interested, or that I would _want_ him to be interested in those things.” There are two twin streaks of color high on Steve’s cheekbones, and he swallows hard. “He’s fucking gorgeous just the way he is.”

Well, if that isn’t the sweetest, most ridiculously endearing little speech Bucky’s ever heard. He has a sudden, sharp desire to kick Natasha out and pull Steve up against him and just kiss him senseless, maybe blurt out something stupid like, “I love you.” He smothers the urge under a huge mouthful of fried rice. 

Natasha raises one eyebrow and assesses Steve and then Bucky in turn, and then shrugs her shoulders. “Okay, then. Good. Just checking. Wanna make sure you’re treating him right.” She peers over at Bucky again. “You want my wontons, then?” she asks, like it’s a perfectly normal thing to say. 

“Sure,” Bucky says, and Steve nods approvingly. 

By the time she leaves, Natasha and Steve are getting along just fine, and Bucky’s so full he can barely catch his breath. 

*

“I like her,” Steve says, the next morning. He’s carrying a breakfast tray, laden with a Spartan bowl of oatmeal topped with blueberries for himself, and a box of cherry-cheese Danishes for Bucky, along with coffee and cream and a bottle of grapefruit-flavored mineral water. He sets it down on the nightstand and crawls back into bed beside Bucky, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing.

There’s a lot to squeeze. Bucky feels so good; heavy and soft against the flat planes of his own body, and he tangles his legs between Bucky’s, nudges into him with his narrow hips. “Have you known her long?” 

“Met her ages ago, back when she was…well. Doing something else. Ran a few ops together back then. She recruited me for this job, actually.” 

Steve frowns as he presses a kiss to Bucky’s neck. “Is this…is you being bigger going to compromise your job?” It’s embarrassing that he’s never thought of this before. Bucky had said “cyber-security,” and hadn’t contradicted him when he’d guessed that that was primarily a desk job. But Steve doesn’t really know what he does all day, and Bucky is always cautious when discussing his work. 

“Nah,” Bucky says, squeezing him back. That feels good, too. Bucky is strong, under the softness. _Well, he’d have to be, hauling all that extra weight around,_ Steve thinks, and he buries his hot face in Bucky’s shoulder, feeling ashamed and turned on, all at once. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah, as long as I can get close enough to my computer to look at the screen, I’ll be fine. Which I can,” he adds, when Steve moans and squirms in his arms. “Steve. C’mon, it’s fine. Nobody cares.” 

“Natasha noticed, though,” Steve says, and god, isn’t that an electrifying thought. Other people noticing, commenting on his weight gain, eyeing his gut or his ass, eyes widening in surprise. “You’re too big for the scale, Buck. You’re…” Bucky is huge, there’s really no way around it. Well over 300 by now, and only getting bigger. “You’re huge,” Steve makes himself say. “Look at this.” He looks, and runs a hand over the expanse of Bucky’s belly, and Bucky looks, too. 

“Well, yeah,” Bucky says. “What’d you think was going to happen?” 

“This. This, oh god, Bucky. This exact thing.” 

Bucky smiles and gathers Steve into his lap, sitting up as best he can and letting Steve rut against his belly a little. “Do you get this turned on by your clients, when they first come to you? Is it hard, helping them whittle down to little shadows of themselves?” 

“No, that’s completely different. And I’ve never had a client as big as you,” he says. 

“Ouch,” Bucky says, but Steve can feel him getting hard, pressing against his ass. 

“I don’t even know what I’d do,” he says breathlessly. “You’re practically a hopeless case. And you’re only gonna get fatter, the way you’ve been eating, lately.” 

Bucky leans over, chubby rolls forming on his side, and chooses a pastry from the box. He shoves it into his mouth, somehow managing a “Whaddya mean?” around it. 

“Oh, Jesus.” 

Bucky smirks and keeps eating, one hand holding Steve’s hip, moving his own hips rhythmically, and Steve is on the verge of an orgasm in seconds, holding back only with an effort. “I can’t get enough of you,” he whispers, leaning over Bucky’s tummy to bite at his earlobe. “I can’t.” 

“Good thing. There’s a lot of me.” 

And god, yes, there really is. Steve puts his hands on Bucky’s belly, squeezing and pinching, letting his hands sink deep into the softness. Bucky is always soft in the morning, before a day spent eating makes it stick out, full and firm, but his belly is so big now that it’s always round, just barely beginning to sag a little when he stands up. “You’re so fucking fat. Look at you. Look at you.” _I love you,_ Steve thinks. _God, I really, really do._ Which is ridiculous. Isn’t it? All they’ve really done is this, this bizarre, indulgent, near-constant cycle of eating, teasing, and fucking. And talking. There’s definitely been a lot of talking. Meals that go on for hours. More TV and movie-watching than Steve usually does. And little walks around the city, sometimes, when Steve meets Bucky for lunch between clients. And…well. Living. They’re practically living together, with personal items littered all over each other’s apartments. 

“God,” Steve says, the realization heightening his arousal to something like a fever pitch, his eyes blurring, his cock shoved hard into Bucky’s achingly soft, heavy belly. “In me, Bucky. C’mon.” He tries to keep the heady pressure against his cock, but has to lean way over to get the lube out of the nightstand. 

“You sure?” Bucky asks, startled. “Don’t you have clients later?” 

“Fuck’em. I’m staying in bed with you all day. I’m staying right here and feeding you Danishes and you’re fucking my brains out. That’s what we’re doing.” 

And that’s what they do. 

*

When Bucky gets home from work the following week, he finds a parcel waiting for him at the front desk. “It says it’s for the guy who lives across from you,” the doorman says. “But it’s got your address on it.”

“I’ll take it,” Bucky says. It’s a heavy, oblong cardboard box from Amazon, and it clanks when he picks it up. He manages to get it under his arm, although it digs into his side uncomfortably, but carrying it in front of him is basically impossible, with so much belly in the way. 

“Jeez, man. When are you due?” the doorman asks, watching him struggle to get the package situated in. 

Bucky almost doesn’t get it. He almost asks _Due where?_ before he catches on. He glares at the doorman. “That’s funny,” he deadpans. “You’re a really funny guy.” 

The doorman holds up his hands. “Hey, I’m just saying. You really packed it on, buddy. Keep it up and you’ll max out the elevator.” 

Bucky knows he should be offended, but all he thinks is, _God, Steve would love this._ He’d love hearing about it, even if he did come down here and punch the doorman’s lights out. Which is exactly what he’d do. He’d sock him right in the eye, then come right back upstairs and be deliciously pervy about the whole thing, grind himself into a frenzy on Bucky’s thigh, hands gripping his belly like he was holding on for dear life. 

Which is more or less how Bucky feels about it, to be honest. He knows people have to have noticed that he’s gained nearly a hundred pounds; it’s hardly a secret. He’d popped more than one shirt button at work, and Natasha had discreetly left a tiny sewing kit at his desk, for when buttons went missing or seams ripped. People had started dropping food at his desk – leftover Halloween candy, extra donuts after meetings, the last few cupcakes after a birthday party. Like he’s some kind of human garbage disposal. 

It doesn’t bother him, not really; he secretly likes that people notice, enjoys the weird mix of shame and pride it instills in him, and particularly loves the way it affects Steve; how every pound he gains makes Steve’s knees weak, his eyes go all dreamy, his cheeks pink, his body hard and demanding. It’s desperately, ridiculously hot, all of it. So no, Bucky isn’t offended. 

“The elevator is rated up to 1500 pounds, man. So we’ve got a little while,” is all he says. He wrestles the box into the elevator and presses the button for the tenth floor. 

He figures the box contains some kind of fitness equipment, and wonders, briefly, if he should use it, whatever it is. He’s still breathing hard from the walk from the Metro station, and half of that had been the long escalator ride to street level. And really, how long can he keep this up? Sure, it’s nice not to have to worry about what he eats, how many times he outgrows his clothes. It’s liberating, in a way, and he likes food, likes feeling full, even likes how big he feels, how much space he’s taking up, likes the way his belly sits in his lap now, taking up more and more room every day. 

He likes Steve feeding him. Likes getting incredibly, ridiculously full and letting Steve ride him, flushed and so turned on he can barely contain himself. He likes that a lot. 

But at some point, it’s going to be too much. Isn’t it? There’s got to be an end point. He can’t just be this fat – and he’s really very, very fat – forever. 

Can he? 

And what would happen with Steve, if Bucky decided to get back in shape? Would he be disappointed? Would they break up? He thinks about what Steve had said, on then night they’d had Natasha over for dinner. _He’s fucking gorgeous just the way he is._ God, it had felt so good to hear him say that, even though he’d been saying it all along, in a way, with every action, every look, every bite of food he’d reverently placed in Bucky’s mouth, or even irreverently shoved into it. But would he still feel that way if Bucky gained more weight? Or lost it all? 

Just then, as if he’d known Bucky was thinking of him, Steve sends a text. 

_Should be a box waiting for you at the desk._

_I got it. What is it?_

_It’s a surprise. Open it when you get home._

As soon as he gets back to his apartment, Bucky opens the box. It’s a medical scale, with weights poised along two parallel balance beams. According to the booklet included in the box, it goes all the way up to 490 pounds. 

_Jesus Christ, you weirdo,_ he texts to Steve. _Do we even need this? You’re practically a human calculator about this shit._

_Precision is important. Can you set it up?_

_Of course. I’m just fat, honey, I’m not a moron._

_I know. :) I’ll be home in an hour with dinner._

*

Steve picks up a Super Jumbo Combo Platter at Food Korner Kabob House, along with a small order of chicken kabobs for himself, sides of deep-fried fried eggplant, spinach, and cauliflower, naan, and entire pan of baklava.

He wants tonight to be special, and not just because there’s a gleaming new scale waiting for him at Bucky’s apartment. 

He and Bucky have been doing whatever it is they’ve been doing for months now, but somehow, they’ve never really talked about it. Not really; not in a level-headed, calm way, laying out ground rules. Steve had never expected to need to discuss this with anyone, this deepest, darkest corner of his sexuality, the secret shame that was the source of all his best orgasms, the thing he’d always thought about when he was in bed with someone, no matter what they looked like. 

Somehow, with Bucky, it just _happened_ , like it was a perfectly natural, normal thing to do, helping your new boyfriend gain a hundred-plus pounds, and having the most explosively fantastic sex of your entire life as a result. Bucky acts like it’s normal, even if he does call Steve a pervert and a weirdo, and he seems happy to eat anything Steve wants him to, and Steve loves it. He loves all of it. 

He loves Bucky. 

He’s been thinking about it for days, now, and he knows that can’t just keep going like this, without making sure Bucky knows that. Because what they’re doing has consequences, and Bucky’s taking the brunt of them. For Steve. And the guilt – even though it makes the strange, shameful pleasure of the situation all the more intense – is eating at Steve. 

The thing is, he can’t even think about the impending conversation without getting turned on. He’s not even sure a level-headed, rational conversation about Bucky’s weight is possible for him. It’s like setting himself on fire and trying to have a calm conversation about how fire extinguishers work. 

“This is ridiculous,” he tells himself, navigating around a gaggle of other pedestrians at the street corner. “If we can fucking do it, we can damn well talk about it.” He charges through the lobby of the building and up the stairs, determined to do just that. 

*

When Steve steps into Bucky’s apartment, he’s greeted by the very welcome, very brain-melting image of Bucky propped up against the sofa on the floor, his enormous belly—and really, it’s getting ridiculous, how much of his chubby thighs are covered up with tummy—mounding up in front of him. He’s watching old episodes of Anthony Bourdain on Netflix, the newly constructed scale right beside him.

Steve stops, admiring this admittedly weird tableau for a second, and then thinks to ask, “Are you down there because you couldn’t get back up?” 

Bucky glares at him, although the effect is somewhat ruined by his deep double chin and chubby cheeks, which always make him look like a slightly naughty school boy. “Yes, I can fucking get back up, punk. I just finished putting your new toy together and didn’t feel like it.” He grins. “Good thing you installed that Echo so I could turn on the TV. If I could get Alexa to bring me a fucking sandwich we’d be set.”

“If Alexa could bring you sandwiches I’d feel replaced,” Steve says, setting his excessive stack of carryout bags on the coffee table. “So did you get on it yet?”

“And deprive you of the experience? Course not buddy.”

“We should eat first, anyway,” Steve says, and Bucky rolls his eyes. 

“Pervert,” he says gently, like it’s some kind of pet name. “Help me up.”

“Thought you said you could get up on your own, pal.”

“I can,” Bucky insists. “Just gimme a hand.” 

So Steve does, and god help him, he loves it, the way it feels to take part of Bucky’s weight, the way Bucky has to get to his knees first, maneuvering around the enormity of his belly, and then pull himself up. The way Bucky’s cheeks are pink from the exertion of hauling his fat ass off the floor. 

Bucky is entirely right. Steve _is_ a pervert. 

Bucky makes short work of his food, plowing through entrees and deep fried vegetables with ease, but it turns out that an entire pan of baklava is too much, even for Bucky’s bottomless pit of gluttony, and he stops a little over three quarters of the way through. “No more, Stevie,” he gasps around a hiccup. “It’s so sweet, I can’t.” He shoves his hair back from his forehead, looking exerted. It’s funny – Steve used to be able to tell when Bucky was stuffed just by looking at his gut, how swollen and taut it was. These days, he’s so fat all the time that it’s harder to tell. There’s so much fat on his belly that even when he’s packed like a drum, he’s still soft, round and wide all over. He looks full right now, though, panting and a little sweaty. 

“Poor baby,” Steve says, rubbing gentle circles on Bucky’s belly, his fingers sinking deep into his chub with each press of his hand. 

Bucky rolls his eyes, but when Steve leans forward to kiss him, Bucky meets him in the middle, kissing him slow and lazy and sweet. 

“You want me on that scale now?” Bucky asks when they pull apart. “’Cause you’ll have to subtract like ten pounds of fucking baklava, Christ, Stevie.”

“Duly noted.”

Before Bucky even steps on the scale, Steve realizes that he’s not going to fit on it unless he’s sideways. There’s too much belly in the way – it’ll press into the height rod at the back of the scale and he won’t be able to step on. 

Bucky realizes this, too – because he’s “fat, not a moron,” that mouthy shit – and shuffles onto it sideways. Steve’s heart skips a beat or two as he watches Bucky’s plush sides squish against the rod anyway. 

“You ready?” he asks, stepping up to push the beams around. 

“Probably not as ready as you are,” Bucky sasses, accurately.

Steve doesn’t even respond, just tics the beam over to 350 to start the show. He’s not sure Bucky’s over 350 – to be honest, the fatter Bucky gets, the harder it is for Steve to guess his weight. At some point it all starts to just look big. Really big. 

The scale doesn’t level, and Steve inhales slowly and slides it over to 370. 371. It finally levels at 373. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Bucky.”

“Subtract the baklava weight,” Bucky demands. 

“You’re still over 350, though.” It’s a little breathtaking to even think it, let alone say it. 

Bucky steps off the scale and looks down at himself, gives his enormous belly a little shake that makes Steve want to push him down onto the couch and grind into him. “I got kinda fat,” he says, the most adorable understatement Steve thinks he’s ever heard in his whole fucking life. 

“You did,” he breathes. 

*

Bucky can tell Steve’s got something on his mind – something other than his usual kinky shit, although that’s obviously there, too. He’d looked like a kid in a candy shop, clacking those fucking weights around when Bucky was on the scale.

Still, it’s not a surprise when, while they’re lazily making out on the couch, kissing and talking, slow and without purpose, the way Bucky likes best when he’s this full, that Steve eventually pulls back and gives him a serious look. 

“You know you don’t have to do this, right? Like…” Steve trails off, looking frustrated. “If you didn’t want to, I mean.” 

There it is. Bucky’s been waiting for it. “Do what? Eat my weight in carryout? Or get on a fucking industrial strength scale because it gives you a boner?”

Steve blushes, ducking his head. “Either? Both? It’s…I never thought I’d actually get to do this with someone. It’s always been a secret thing.”

“So you became a personal trainer because you enjoy punishing yourself? You fuckin’ masochist, Stevie.” It’s probably not the right time to joke, exactly, but Bucky can’t quite help himself, and Steve is ridiculous. And handsome. And awkward. And Bucky loves him.

“It’s complicated,” Steve says weakly.

“Uh huh,” Bucky says, grinning. It’s complicated all right, and there’s no way Steve can explain the kink and the job without it seeming like he belongs in a fucking psychological case study. It’s weirdly charming, and Bucky doesn’t mind a bit. 

Steve inhales and squares his shoulders, clearly determined to say whatever it is he thinks he needs to say. Bucky leans back and waits. 

“It’s just – I would have wanted to invite you over even if you weren’t fat, that first time we met on the stairs. “ 

“I wasn’t that fat when you first invited me,” Bucky points out.

“You were pretty chubby,” Steve says, poking Bucky in the belly, and Bucky snorts. 

“And you were a real gentleman then, too.”

Steve blushes, and Bucky takes pity on him. “This is sweet, Steve. And I get it. You like me for me.“ He reaches over and grabs Steve’s hand. “Not just because I’ll eat whatever junk you bring home.” 

“I do.” Steve falls silent for a minute, staring up at Bucky, his eyes wide. “I didn’t fall in love with you because you let me shove cookies down your throat.”

Bucky freezes. 

“But I do. Love you. With or without Girl Scout cookies or special scales.”

Bucky blinks, and suddenly he wants to know. Has to know. “And if I wanted to hire you to train me?”

Steve doesn’t hesitate. “Of course, baby. Of course.”

They stare at each other for a second, and it probably should feel awkward but it doesn’t. Bucky’s heart is pounding, but it’s a good, crazy, in-love kind of pounding. 

“I don’t want you to be my trainer,” Bucky blurts out. 

Steve grins. “Okay.” 

“But it wouldn’t be the worst thing if we took a walk or something once in a while.” He lifts up as much of his gut as he can—and that’s astonishing, in and of itself, realizing that he can’t hold up all of his enormous tummy at once, that he’s too fat to hold up his own belly—and pushes it around a little. “Just, you know. Carry this around a little more often. Make an effort not to actually max out that scale.” 

Steve nods, starts to speak, but Bucky cuts him off. “You like having a three-hundred-and-fifty pound boyfriend?”

“Yes. And you’re well over three-fifty,” he adds, because he’s Steve and he can’t resist. “Three-seventy-three. Jesus, yes. But Buck – I’d like you being my boyfriend any way you were.”

“God, you sap,” Bucky says.

Steve just nods, looking like a goddamned Boy Scout, and Bucky loves him so much he thinks he could choke. 

“I love you, too. Weirdo.”

Steve smiles, that all-American grin of his that fairly screams of clean living and earnestness and makes Bucky want to wreck him, mess up his hair and his clothes and his whole entire being. 

“Wanna go to bed?” Bucky asks, because he’s tired, and because he’s happy, and because all he really wants is to lay back against the headboard and kiss Steve senseless, until they’re both so strung out with wanting that they don’t even bother to fuck, that Steve just pushes Bucky’s tummy out of the way and they swap handjobs like teenagers, desperate and unwound and stupidly, messily happy. “Bring the baklava.” 

Steve grins, leaping up and reaching out to help Bucky up like it’s second nature. “I knew you could finish it, tubby,” he says softly, and it sounds like a compliment. Like a benediction. Like love words. 

**Author's Note:**

> Whether you're a shameless piece of garbage or just enjoyed this one, you should visit us on Tumblr at at [d-lightfulexcess](http://d-lightfulexcess.tumblr.com/) and [missjanedoeeyes](http://missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com/).


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